


Helgen

by kosciuszkovevo



Series: Voice of the Sky [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Touching the Sky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9694760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosciuszkovevo/pseuds/kosciuszkovevo
Summary: Iseult comes face to face her greatest enemy (and the headsman's axe).





	

Sweet Akatosh, they really though she was one of the rebels. Now wearing a filthy tunic sewn from rags, Iseult shivered as she sat indignantly on the bench in the cart. Several men sat across from her, seemingly unfazed by the chilly breeze. Iseult held onto the amulet in her fist- it was growing slightly sweaty, but she had somehow managed to keep it after everything else had been confiscated. Looking around wearily, she felt the carriage's wheels bump, making the ride uneasy. Where they were going, she didn't know.

A man, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, suddenly remarked, "Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush and that thief over there." Across from him, a rather seedy looking fellow cut in dryly, "Damn you Stormcloaks... Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you I'd have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." He looked at her, and stated resentfully, "You there, you and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Remaining silent, Iseult looked away. She wanted nothing to do with them, she wanted to leave, she had committed no crime. Whether they were rebels, thieves, or runaways, Iseult realized with as the captain's words echoed in her mind, it didn't matter to the Empire. They were all going to die this day.

Maybe the horse theif hadn't realized his grim fate, but the Stormcloak did. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now," he expressed bleakly, looking directly at Iseult.

In front of them, the carriage driver angrily shouted, "Shut up back there!" and silence reigned for a few moments. The moments seemed like an eternity- perhaps it was the impending dread collecting itself into a heavy weight at the bottom of her stomach.

Finally, the thief broke the silence by gesturing towards the gagged man in the back, "What's wrong with him, huh?"

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King," Ralof interjected sharply, as if he took the man's remark as a personal offense.

The horse thief recoiled, and stammered, "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion... if they've captured you... oh gods, where are they taking us?"

 

Now he realized his fate, long after Iseult and the others did. It did nothing but increase the tension building up within her- if this really was Ulfric, the leader of the rebellion, there was no hope for them now.

The thief stuttered out the names of all the divines, pleading earnestly that he might be granted divine mercy. But there is no rest for the wicked, Iseult knew. The Divines couldn't save him, they couldn't save any of them.

As they pulled up towards the gate, the Stormcloak practically voiced her own thoughts, that nobody knew what awaited them. He mentioned a place called Sovngarde, a name totally foreign to Iseult's ears, but she cared little for what he said.

"Hey, what village are you from horse-thief?" he said, this time his voice significantly softer than when he responded to the thief's careless remark.

The thief had little empathy with the Nord, and responded harshly, "Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," Ralof said, looking at him sympathetically. Iseult listened in on their conversation, curious at peculiar Nordic custom. No such bond existed between home and heart for the Imperials back in Cyrodiil, they weren't so family bound as their northern neighbors.

"Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead..." The thief said feebly, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Ahead, they heard a voice shout out that the prisoners had arrived, and Iseult craned her neck to see inside the little hamlet.

As they entered through the gate (Iseult inwardly scoffed at the Nord's simplistic architecture), several figures on horseback observed them sternly. Several high elves, donned in Thalmor robes, to Iseult's disbelief, stood next to what Iseult realized was General Tullius. He aged immensely from the last time Iseult saw him, during a parade in the City- whether it was age, war, stress, or all three, Tullius looked years beyond from what Iseult remembered.

"Look at him! General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this!" Ralof exclaimed bitterly, as he glared at the group, his icy eyes glinting in the morning light.

Overwhelmed by the threat of imminent execution, the final minutes in the carriage passed by for what seemed like an eternity, as Iseult glared at the onlooking town residents whose faces were equally grim.

As the cart pulled to a gut-wrenching stop, Iseult saw the same captain from before stride up and shout, "Get these prisoners out of the cart!"

"Why are we stopping?" the thief suddenly squeaked weakly, his voice cracking with fear.

"Why do you think? End of the line, the Stormcloak answered. The whole group stood up, and prepared to depart the carriage. "Let's go," he continued. "We shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

I, for one, Iseult thought suddenly, would want to die with dignity, as she watched the thief squirm with horror. Suddenly, the theif whipped around towards the captian and shrieked,

"You've got to tell them we weren't with you! This is a mistake!" Yet, his shouts would be in vain, because the captain simply responded, "Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!"

"Empire loves there damned lists, don't they?" Ralof sneered as he hopped off the carriage, and it seemed everyone was nervous for their executions. Iseult's own gut was doing somersaults as Ulfric Stormcloak was called forth, then Ralof, who evidently was the Stormcloak's name, and...

"Lokir of Rorikstead," the Imperial soldier called out, looking up from the list.

"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" Lokir shouted as he suddenly made a beeline towards the gate, by the Nine, this is suicidal, Iseult's mind raced as she knew what was to come.

The captain barked, "Halt!" but Lokir screamed that they weren't going to get him, and before Iseult knew it several arrows were protruding from his back as his body lay in the mud. Gripping the amulet in the back of her palm, Iseult heard the Nord officer speak to her.

"Wait... You there," he began, "Step forward. Who... are you?"

"My nam is..." Iseult started coldly, but was cut off by a strange sound echoing through the mountains. What it was, she didn't know. The officer looked around, and asked, "What was that?"

"It's nothing," Tullius cut in sternly. "Carry on."

The officer looked down at his list, and back up again. "I didn't get your name, what was it again?" he asked, staring at her.

"Forget the list!" The captain snarled. "She's an Imperial, therefore a traitor, and straight to the chopping block." Iseult went pale, and gulped. The officer, looking disappointed, said reproachfully, "By your orders, Captain. I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains get returned to Cyrodiil. Follow the captain, prisoner."

Iseult cast a furious glare at him as she stepped next to Ralof- surely there was something more the officer could have done? But there was no hope in getting out of this execution, Iseult knew. My new life here is going to be incredibly short, Iseult thought as she glanced uneasily at Ralof.

Tullius, meanwhile, stepped in front of Ulfric, chin pointed in triumph as he looked him over. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp the throne."

Ulfric, whose mouth was gagged and bound, simply offered a growl as a reply.

Tullius remained icily cool, and continued,"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace-"

A roar echoed off into the distance, interrupting Tullius. Iseult looked around wildly, trying to find the source of the noise, but could not find it. Everyone seemed to hear it, but Tullius remained oblivious. The captain, slightly put off edge, demanded to the nearby priestess, "Give them their last rites."

The priestess, who seemed oddly enthusiastic, raised her hands orant-style and began, "As we commend your souls to the Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines-"

"Oh, for the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" A red-headed Stormcloak strode forward unbashedly as the priestess obeyed hesitantly, and he continued, "Come on! I haven't got all morning!" He kneeled at the chopping block, and snarled at Tullius, "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

The headsman reached back as he extended his axe, preparing to strike. In one swift motion, the Stormcloak's head was brutally severed from his neck, as Iseult watched the shivering stump bleed profusely into the basket and onto the cobblestones. The other Stormcloaks shouted in defiance, flinging slurs at the Imperials as they declared their fury over their now dead comrade.

Another roar, this time louder, was heard. There was no denying it, everyone heard it, even Tullius. But the captian commanded, "Next! The Imperial in the rags!"

"But, ma'am, did you hear that?" The officer asked, and Iseult swore he trembled. "I said... next prisoner!" She shouted loudly, ignoring the officer's remark.

"To the block prisoner, nice and easy..."

Iseult's heart was thumping wildly in her chest. She inhaled deeply, trying to savor the last moments of her life. Clutching the dragon necklace in her hand, she stepped forward. Her brief life would end, unahppily and brutally, and her heart seemed to plummet into her stomach.

She kneeled, and recoiled at the sight of the Stormcloak's severed head in the basket, staring lifelessly back at her. This was it. It was all over. She felt the grooves of the steel dragon's wings, its' familiar touch, as she gazed up at the headsman, who began to raise his axe over her head.

Behind him, something landed on top of the tower overlooking the village.

Behind him, a great, black creature, claws glinting coldly in the spring sun, was a dragon.

 

It roared.


End file.
